


Twilight's Parasites

by Brenda



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:11:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1365217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Outrunning ghosts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twilight's Parasites

**Author's Note:**

  * For [antheia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/antheia/gifts).



> Originally written in January of 2007.

The last harsh grunts of completion have barely left Dean's lips when he pulls out, cock used and spent, and ties off the condom. But even though his body's lax and sated, he's still shaking, still shaken and sore, and the voices hammering at him are still as loud as ever. Not that he deserves the respite. With one hand, he braces his weight against the storeroom wall, rough wood digging under his nails, scrapping bruised, raw skin. When he can focus on something else over the sound of his own thundering heartbeat, he can pick out the muted sounds of Jimi Hendrix from the jukebox in the bar.

Ellen unwraps long, still trembling legs from around his waist, uses the wall as leverage to stand. She stares up at him with hazed eyes, wild, tangled hair spilling over her shoulders, lips red and torn from Dean's teeth. Her shirt, stained with stale beer and Jaeger, is yanked up to her armpits, exposing the lace of her bra, damp from where Dean's mouth had been. Her jeans are still caught at one ankle, and, when Dean's gaze flickers further down, he can see the glistening stretch marks on the insides of her thighs, the dark, curly thatch of hair between them, shiny and wet from his tongue and cock.

She meets his gaze when he looks back up – looks at him, _into_ him, inside him. Looks past the remnants of animal passion – the way his t-shirt's wrinkled from clawing, feminine hands, the way full lips are sore and bruised from her kiss. The way his now softened cock dangles between his legs, jeans still shoved just down his hips, a victim of haste and greed. Looks at him like she can see right through him, right into the heart of who he is, who he's trying so fucking hard to be.

In the timeless moment that compassionate, knowing eyes met his, Dean can hear his father's warm laughter, see his gruff smile.

"Feel better?" she asks, in a rough, whiskey-voice that soothes as much as it inflames, and Dean catches her hand, feels the pulse hammering just under the thin skin of a slender wrist, before it can reach him. He can taste regret and guilt pulsing dully in the air between them, claiming him with yet another secret. Another lie in a never-ending line of them.

He's so fucking tired of lies. Tired of the lies and the bullshit and the bottomless chasm inside him that he can never fill, no matter what he does, who he fucks, how far he runs.

"Feeling better?" she repeats, not quite a question this time. And this time, he lets her hand slide through his hair, the touch soft, maternal, at odds with the way she's still pressed against him. He's pretty sure she already knows the answer; he's pretty sure she's always known.

"Not yet," he replies, and closes his eyes when he leans in for another kiss. Damns himself with the truth in the stuttered slide of his tongue over hers, and finds forgiveness in her arms.

***


End file.
